The Fawn & The Stag
by LiteratureCat
Summary: A story of the fragile and the proud, the broken and the victorious. Because sometimes even the strongest get swept away, yet surely it is better to be broken in battle than to die without a fight? Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**_I don't own Sherlock, but I do own my OC :)

**&&: **Happy Reading!

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A slender hand knocked at the door of 221B Baker Street, the pale skin contrasting to the black paint of the door. The figure which belonged to this hand seemed as out of place as the hand on the door; a fragile, delicate looking woman stood – suitcase in hand – with soft blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders and an expression on her face which only held nervousness. She clearly didn't belong here, yet here she was at the doorstep of her uncle's flat.

If she wasn't going to fit in out here, then she certainly wouldn't fit in once she was inside the building. However, she didn't have to wait long to meet her fate as the door swung open. Before her stood a lady who looked as though she was at least in her late forties – not quite the company she was expecting. However, this woman clearly was expecting her.

"Ah! Hello dear, you must be John's niece – Lily is it? I'm Mrs. Hudson, and I am most certainly not their housekeeper." The woman was definitely chatty; she'd barely walked a few steps into the house and was already greeted, names and all.

"Actually, it's Lillian." She spoke quietly, not really sure what else to say. So far all she could understand from 'Mrs. Hudson' was that she knew she was to arrive, but the rest she was at a loss. Who was the 'their' she was referring to? John? John and somebody else Lillian presumed, but who that 'somebody' was she had no idea.

"What was that? I'm afraid you'll have to speak up. Anyway, why don't you follow me upstairs and I'll take you to the spare room – it's by your Uncle's so you'll have to go up more than one flight of stairs each day. I'm afraid my back couldn't take it…"

Lillian decided it was best to just fade out and not listen to the ramblings and just observe her new surroundings. Even the staircase – and she was yet to still see the flat – was grubby, well-worn and frankly quite creaky. She said nothing though, sticking to the safe path behind Mrs. Hudson, where she was sure none of the steps would fall in on her.

However, the treacherous steps ended rather abruptly into a… cosy living space. Though 'living' didn't seem to be the right word. Lillian was practically convinced that several things had probably died in here. The skull she spotted out of the corner of her eye seemed to prove that.

Yet amongst the dead there was often the living, and Uncle John clearing the coffee table was one of them. He looked up to see her entrance, and his blue grey eyes met her own hazel pair. A smile was brought out on his lips, and she smiled back – though it was a little forced.

"Lillian."

"John."

His voice sounded warm, welcoming. Her voice sounded artificial, unnatural. But clearly her pretence had fooled him as she was given a swift embrace and treated as though she wanted to be here.

"It's been too long." Lillian said as they separated, thinking mildly of John's work in the army and how it had meant that for most of her time growing up she had rarely met him. Well, now was to make up with some quality time.

Soon, after the greetings and the small talk, she'd been shown to her new room (which had the smell of damp in it) and had been brought back down to the living space, which – for some unfathomable reason – seemed to be where the people in this place spent most of their time.

But peace being peace was disturbed before Lillian even had the chance to sit down and settle with a cuppa and a conversation with John. She hadn't told him strictly the truth about why she was here yet, and didn't fancy it until she felt comfortable enough. In the meanwhile the sofa was comfortable enough for a chat, besides the cool dampness of her coat on her lap – though frankly that was pleasurable in the apartment's oddly high heating.

However at the entrance of a tall, dark haired and stately figure from the staircase, Lillian felt another introduction coming along. The man, on the other hand, merely glanced at her before finding his armchair decisively, sitting down with an air of impatience which Lillian couldn't help but feel was directed at her and closing his eyes.

The room was silent. Mrs. Hudson left the room quietly with an excuse of a boiling kettle, leaving John, Lillian and this mysterious man alone in the room.

"Ah, Lillian, this is Sherlock – he lives in one of the rooms." John explained, rather awkwardly.

The dark haired man named 'Sherlock' snapped his eyes open and gave Lillian a penetrating stare. The almost fierce gaze was a fascinating steely blue, with turquoise and icy hints in it. Never-the-less the appearance was nothing compared to the keen, analytical view in those eyes.

Lillian waited for a 'hello' or some sort of response which wasn't an uncomfortable look, however beside her John's all-weary sigh told her that this probably happened on a regular basis. Somehow, she could believe it; nobody would look that… Sherlock, without having reason by it.

"You need help." The man declared, his eyebrows knotting in a frown.

"_Sherlock!_" John practically shouted at him and got up from the sofa – clearly trying to intimidate this intimidating man into giving an apology. His voice a mixture of exasperation, annoyance and embarrassment; this definitely happened often.

Lillian on the other hand was… shocked. The first thought which had come to her was '_he's right'_. Which was quite disturbing, but also a little relieving that somebody else in this world knew. However, Lillian's second thoughts put her on the defensive line – she had a feeling that this 'Sherlock' was just being rude; there was no reason for him to see the accidental truth.

"I do not." Lillian spoke sharply and stiffly, pursing her lips together.

"Which is why you do." He retorted in a level tone.

"Oh really? What makes you think that anyway?" She snapped, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms.

Beside her John let her out an audiable sigh and flumped back onto the sofa, muttering something unintelligible beneath his breath, whilst Sherlock tented his fingers and began.

"Behind the mask of makeup your face is too pale, as are your lips; not a good sign. Your body is a little _too _thin, too gaunt – the way you hold yourself like you're about to break, clearly you've been hurt. You have dark circles beneath your eyes; you've a disjointed sleeping pattern. Eyes shifting side to side every so often; you are nervous. Twice since I have entered you have unconsciously glanced towards the door – escape routes. You don't want to be here, why? Presumably not family inconvenience as your close proximity to John will show. More so you don't want to be here because whatever you're trying to get away from isn't far away. Looking at your coat you've been out in the rain twice, those two occasions not too far from each other: I'd say you caught the bus here, and judging by amount of rain on your coat and the amount of rain outside I'd say you came on the 274 from Lancaster Gate." Sherlock paused, adjusting his scarf whilst beside Lillian she felt John's stare as he looked her over and obviously finding Sherlock's word's true. Lillian on the other hand just let her mouth pop open. How did he know what _bus_ she was on?

"You took your coat off almost immediately, and you've fidgeted often – you must be hot. Yet as for the cardigan I can only presume you are hiding something beneath it – probably-" But Sherlock's tirade was interrupted. Lillian had already got to her feet at the mention of 'you must be hot', knowing what was coming next. By the time she'd walked over to him, stood looming above him as much as possible (though with little effect) he'd already got to the part about what lay beneath her cardigan. She wouldn't let him get any further.

A hard slap whacked Sherlock around the face. He was momentarily stunned, but continued on not seeming to realise that it would only deserve him another slap. And another one. Still not comprehending what an annoyance he was she held his chin firmly in her hand. True, she may look and _be_ as weak as Sherlock's synopsis, but when she wanted to be firm…

"Shut. Up." Lillian hissed, fully aware of her Uncle's surprised look peeping out at her from the corner of her eye. But she wasn't going to let Sherlock get away with this. "I am _fine_. I may look 'thin' to you, but that's kind of the point of a diet. The way I hold myself? What are you, a freakin' poet? I'm freezing! Hence the keeping the cardigan on and _taking off my soaking jacket_!"

By the end of her quick rant she was practically yelling, but also feeling quite contented. She knew she'd won this argument – for now. But now was enough time for everything to get better. Lillian looked at him with an expectant glare, however felt a little foolish as she realised she was still holding his jaw shut.

Upon being released, however, Sherlock just looked coolly back. He was a sore loser. Behind her, Lillian could hear John's chuckle – it had a nervous touch to it, but also a relieved one. He believed his niece. Straightening herself up and flicking away the blonde locks from her face, she swirled around with her chin defiantly in the air, and made her way to her new room.

Behind her all she could hear was stony silence.

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**So...** what do you think? Please review ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any Sherlock, as much as I'd love to ;3

**&&: **In this chapter you might notice a certain character, but that's because I felt that because this character is so blindingly awesome, this story would have to be ever so slightly AU :)

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The next few days in 221B were uneventful. For the most part, Lillian avoided company – sticking to her room – and she certainly avoided the company of Sherlock. As soon as she entered a room with him, his eyes were on her, analysing constantly. It was highly disconcerting. However, since finding out that he was a 'consultant detective' she was even more unnerved.

Partially for self-preservation, partially for John, she didn't want Sherlock finding much more about her. Yet each time she accidentally met his eyes, they'd send across a clear message; 'I know'. And she hated it. He was smug, he was arrogant and just because he was right didn't mean he could be any of those things.

Yet some good was to come out of Sherlock and John's work – it meant that the flat was often empty, leaving her free to do whatever she wished. Naturally she didn't go outside, though she would tell John otherwise, and she kept herself occupied by sketching and drawing various objects in the flat.

She was a good drawer, or so they told her, and kept a sketchbook with her most of the time. So far Lillian was finding the flat an interesting point of observation; the occasional body part in the fridge provided her with a wide variety of subjects which she wouldn't necessarily have been able to draw before. Of course, finding body parts isn't something one would usually enjoy, but if she was going to live here then she'd make the most out of it.

But one day she foolishly left it out on the coffee table, book wide open, distracted by the idea of a quick cuppa, when John and Sherlock came back from a day's work. Naturally Sherlock clocked onto this foreign object into the room, picking it up and examining the most recent drawing of the dagger stabbed into his unread letters.

Coming out of the kitchen with a steaming mug, she noticed the scene before her – Sherlock prying with interest through her sketchbook and John looking over his shoulder with curiosity.

"Oi!" She yelped swiftly placing her green tea on the table and lurching over to grab the book out of Sherlock's hands.

The man, of course, moved the book out of reach and slowly walked over to his armchair, settling in it whilst still engrossed with her drawings. Lillian briefly considered forcing Sherlock to give it back, but she didn't feel quite angry enough to do anything overly physical today – not like when she and Sherlock had first met. With a sigh she sat down on the sofa haughtily, glaring at him all the while – but he was too busy observing.

John sat down next to her, and by the look of surprise on his face she could tell he had a few questions. Trying to avoid the interview, she grabbed her tea and gave it a sip, looking steadily down at it. Anything to give her an excuse not to talk. Not that that wouldn't stop him.

"You draw?" He asked, a smile in his voice.

Lillian just nodded in response, hazel eyes kept on the tea.

"You're good." John said, with a slight chuckle to his tone. Lillian flushed her cheeks with embarrassment. She was rubbish when it came to taking compliments.

"I'm surprised at your observation skills." Sherlock's crisp voice came from across the room.

Lillian looked up at him, showing as much surprise in his compliment as he did in her drawings. He merely looked back at her with eye brows raised; for once his look wasn't 'trying to figure her out'. To be honest, he was acting like a friend or a vaguely _normal_ person. John's stunned face from beside her told her that this was as out of the blue as she thought it was.

After a moment of awkward silence, Lillian and John picked up a conversation whilst Sherlock looked through her work, and the topic varied from art to creativity to drama and eventually to real life dramas.

"Aw, come on – I've been on murder cases, your life is not going to be as much of a drama as I've seen." John persuaded her to tell him about her life, mainly because he'd picked up on her reluctance to talk about relationships.

"Fine," Lillian said with a light laugh – it was fake, but she was good at fake now. "Basically, I've got a kind of… on again off again boyfriend."

"Doesn't sound too dramatic to me. What's his name?"

"Jimmy. Well, Jim – but you know." Lillian said vaguely, twirling a blonde curl idly whilst inside she was a pit of curdling fear.

"So… What's going one with you and Jimmy at the moment? On or off?" John said, corners of his mouth twitching upwards at 'Jimmy'.

"Off." Lillian said, a little bluntly. It had gone on for far too long, and she just needed a break. What she had with Jimmy was… unhealthy. Yet she was completely helpless to flaws of love.

"Alright," John paused looking for another topic in conversation – he'd clearly realised that her ex-boyfriend was a touchy subject. However, before he could do anything, Sherlock uncharactistically jumped out his armchair with a 'gah!'.

All eyes turned on him, all eyes showing confusion – even the mighty detective's.

"What is it?" John asked tersely. But Sherlock gave no answer, instead he stormed over to Lillian, looming over her and flashing a page from her book in her face.

"Who? Who is this and how do you know them?" Sherlock demanded, and at seeing the drawing Lillian felt her skin crawl. Beside her, John saw the picture too – his gasp told her that much.

But she was still debating on how to answer the question. Clearly Sherlock and John knew the sketch of the man she'd drawn, and she felt that their reaction to him was entirely reasonable. However Lillian still felt the need to play innocent; and she would do until she felt… safe enough.

"What? That's Jimmy; he said he wanted a sketch." Lillian said with raised eyebrows and a dazed tone.

"Jimmy?" Sherlock spat, his lip curled, "_Moriaty_."

"Moriaty is your boyfriend?" John breathed with disbelief, making Lillian feel very self-conscious about the whole situation.

"Oh, are you only on second name basis? Well… yes he is. Was. Kind of." Lillian said vaguely, well aware of Sherlock's fury in front of her.

"Who broke it off?" He snapped quickly, his words tumbling out of his mouth with urgency.

"I-I did." Lillian stammered, confused and nervous by her flat mates' reactions. "It's always been me."

"Always? Yes, on again off again. But why do you always go back?" Sherlock asked, gripping her shoulders.

Lillian hesitated. This was a question which bugged her more than anything, purely because the answer was so… weak. She hated the way Jim could wrap her round his little finger, but she loved it too.

"Well… he loves me." She said simply, hazel eyes wide and round, "And I love him." She added, with a little less conviction.

Sherlock let go of her shoulders and began to pace around the room. This was big.

"He doesn't love you, he doesn't love anyone." He spoke viciously, shooting her a quick glare as he paced passed.

"What? No, he loves me." Lillian retorted, fists clenched. She knew it, with great certainty. And it was because of that that she loved him, so if he didn't love her… then it would all be for nothing.

"What does he know about you, does he know about John?" Sherlock quickly moved on to his next deduction, his assumptions over love were already made.

"John? Well I guess so. When we first met, at the library I used to work at, he asked me about my relatives – he's a very moral man," Sherlock snorted, but she carried on none the less, "- and I said that my uncle used to be an army doctor; he was curious about that – but that's 'cause he had wanted to be in the army himself."

"So he came after you because of your connection with John, makes sense – then he could get at me. Presumed you'd eventually make a visit to your dear uncle, but the time never came. Frustration, anger – seems likely. But he had to keep close, fool you, how? Love. Stupid girl – it was a classic move. Now what's the check mate? On again off again – when it becomes on, he'll visit; he knows you're with your Uncle now, then he'll take the king. Clever, clever – but not clever enough. Unless he wanted me to find out about the picture, unless he wanted me to work all this out…"

Sherlock was speaking far too quickly, his thoughts out before he had time to think them, yet even so Lillian got the gist of what he was saying: that nobody loved her. That she was foolish. That she was weak. Her curly hair practically bristled with electricity as she stood up and began to make her way out of the flat. She wasn't going to stay here to be insulted. A hand fell on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

"Where are you going? We need you here!" Sherlock bellowed, grabbing her arm. She winced but pulled it out of his grip.

"Get off!" She hissed, and flitted down the stairs with uncanny speed. She wanted to get out of here, she felt too enclosed. Dammit, claustrophobia was getting the better of her.

Before anyone could say anything more on the matter, she was out the door. It didn't matter to her that it was pouring with rain and she had nothing but a cotton dress and cardigan on – she just needed peace for once.

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**Well? Please review :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I own my OC.**

**&&: Happy Reading!**

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Storming down the street, Lillian already felt her head begin to cool. It had been so long since she'd been outside, and the fresh air cleared her head. However with a head free of anger it soon became a head of angst. She had started to question herself, Jimmy and everything she'd been through. This probably wasn't a good idea as she knew she was about to get emotional; it happened every time.

Somehow her feet had carried her to an unknown street, but they had carried her just to one of the many, cheap and cheerful London maps dotted around the city. Thankful, she scanned it for a place of refuge, and picked her destination.

Continuing on with a little more purpose, she made her way over to a quiet part of town, where nestled sweetly in beside two very unfriendly looking alleyways was a library. It wasn't one of the main ones, but one with less traffic where she wouldn't be disturbed.

Crossing the road she paused at the Library steps, remembering the previous time she'd entered a library was when she'd handed in her notice, given up her job. It wasn't a happy memory, and she knew that as soon as she entered this place she'd start to want to return to her old life.

But this decision wasn't going to be made for her, as without warning a hand clamped over her mouth and threw her into the alleyway. Whoever had grabbed her had some force behind them as she found herself whamming against the library bins.

Behind her, she heard a ghostly chuckle.

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In apartment 221B Sherlock was receiving a lecture from John, which he was blocking out and at the same time deciding it was best to practise the art of throwing darts into a smiley face. However, at the light vibration in his pocket he grabbed his phone nonchalantly, going into his inbox and checking the new message.

"Sherlock? Are you listening to me?" John yelled at him, whilst the dark haired man remained frozen to the spot.

"John, he's got Lillian." The words were out thick and fast through his lips and he began to take action, shrugging on his coat and searching for his scarf.

"What? Who has?" John asked, bemused.

"Moriaty." Sherlock spat the name as he wrapped the blue scarf around his neck. He was ready to go.

John seemed to sort of blank out in shock, before instantly grabbing his coat and shoes.

They were out of the house in less than five minutes, running down the street. Sherlock seemed to know where he was going, even in this heavy downpour.

"Where are we going?" Asked John tersely as he followed after the long legged man.

"We have twenty minutes to find her."

John just nodded: that sounded Moriaty enough for him. He wasn't too concerned as he knew Sherlock would be able to find her, he was Sherlock after all. Speaking of his partner in _solving _crime, the man had paused beside an information point map, glancing it over, then choosing his destination.

"Where?" John asked as he ran after him.

"The library."

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Sherlock and John were faced with a decision; which alleyway? They had only two minutes to spare, and so process of elimination wouldn't work. Lucky guess? Well that was what it would be down to. One minute left. No other option; they went for the one on the right.

Lucky guess indeed.

About halfway down a shadowy figure was seen through the rain in the middle of the alleyway, and as the got closer they saw him more clearly. _Him_.

"Care to join us?" Moriaty asked, his voice playful and menacing at the same time.

That was when they saw her.

She was on the ground beside the bricked walls, her hands tied behind her back and duct tape over her mouth. Her hazel eyes were round and frightened as she thrashed against her bonds, but she was too weak. Her knee-length red cotton dress was sticking to her skin, the rain soaking through. Blonde, bouncy curls were now just straight, limps bits of hair plastered to her face. Her cardigan was nowhere to be seen, and she was shivering, no shaking of the cold. Each vibration running through her and rattling her; she wasn't just cold, she was freezing.

John stepped forwards to rescue her, but as he did so a few red dots seemed to appear. Three on him, three on Sherlock and one directly on Lillian's heart. He stood still. The already weeping woman had turned into thick and fast noiseless sobs, her breathing rate began to accelerate. As a trained doctor, John could tell she was starting to have a panic attack, and more worryingly, she looked like she might have a case of hypothermia.

"Sorry boys." Moriaty said coldly, "But did you really think I was going to let you win that easily?"

Neither John nor Sherlock spoke anything, their eyes trained on the psychopath.

"But don't you want to hear the story? The story of how a poor, innocent girl who thought she was loved?" His voiced went into a higher pitch, like a story teller on a children's program, meanwhile Lillian began to thrash more violently and cry ever harder. "She thought I _loved_ her. She was an _idiot_!" Moriaty shouted, before walking over to her and slapping her hard around the face.

John tensed, unsure what to do, whilst Sherlock stayed perfectly still.

"I'm telling you, Sherlock, you could have fun with this one – just let her believe that you love her, and you could do _anything_." Moriaty slapped her again, this time with more force. "You could do whatever you wanted, in fact, I've done it all – and she'd come crawling back. You could _beat _her Sherlock, you could make her cry."

Sherlock's jaw clenched as he pieced things together in his head, and he clenched his fists.

"Oh you get it now do you? I thought you would have noticed when you two met. You know, the _scars_, the _bruises_, the _pain_." Moriaty chuckled darkly, before kicking her sharply in the gut, slamming her against the wall.

This time John couldn't help it, he took an involuntary step forwards and Moriaty trained his eyes on him. "Now, now, John, play a good game." He rebuked him, wagging his finger at him like you would do to a child.

"Speak of which, it's my turn – and this game is getting _far _too easy. How about we spice it up? Meet you at the warehouse in 20," Moriaty said grinning, suddenly scooping up a now barely conscious Lillian and starting to walk away. "Oh, but guess what – I'm not telling you which one!" He sang his last words as he soon disappeared in the dark and dingy shadows of the alleyway.

John and Sherlock were frozen, saying nothing. Nothing until the red dots moved – and they would do, as soon as Moriaty left the vicinity

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**So, I'm leaving you hanging ;3 But whatdya think? Please review :)**


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